


don't go where i can't follow

by inacolloquialsense



Category: Impractical Jokers
Genre: Gen, Major character death - Freeform, it's all lonesome mourning, nobody's handling anything well, watching a loved one pass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 16:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12088890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inacolloquialsense/pseuds/inacolloquialsense
Summary: bummer stories:after a car crash recovery doesn't happena low day





	1. undoing

**Author's Note:**

> based on: having a mental breakdown after watching the other die
> 
> not worth reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pull the rug out from under you then drag you through the dirt

What is supposed to happen is that he gets a call from a number he doesn’t recognize. A woman says he’s listed as someone’s emergency contact. He stutters and is allowed to question her. Then in the next minute he goes down in a tail spin and makes himself as small as possible. In the fetal position on the ground he listens to her say she is sorry. That the accident left his friend in a critical state. He is able to pull himself up and stop crying enough to drive to the hospital. 

He walks in and is hit with the scent of disinfectant and sickliness, surrounded by a cacophony of sounds. Pain and suffering. Dread fills him as he remembers why he has hated these places since he was a child. The people at the desk are all smiling, but it doesn’t reach their eyes. They’ve seen terrible things, and he’s just another person they’re going to send along to a sterilized room filled with too still bodies.

“Room 428.” Someone says. They interrupted him, but it’s a relief. He couldn’t stop repeating himself. His voice is faulty and broken.

My friend- My friend was- My friend is- 

The phrasing is all wrong. His tongue is too big in his mouth. His cheeks still aren’t dry, but the salt that’s collected there is burning. He’s rubbed at his eyes so often he’s surprised he hasn’t drawn blood.

He stands outside of the room. Every second a different patient is wheeled down the hall. All of them limp and fragile. Packed and wrapped to hold together pieces that don’t fit together anymore. Forced to stay alive, because every person has friends and family holding their breath and praying they are going to recover. All of them are sedated. He assumes the last part. They don’t seem to be moving.

“Do you know where you are?” A nurse stops to stare at him. Asks him if he’s lost. Maybe he wandered into the wrong ward. “Psychiatric is on the second floor. Hall H.” He thanks them and walks in the direction they point. It’s too embarrassing to say he’s afraid. It’s too much to speak aloud what he’s afraid of. It’s easier to turn the corner and hide. Wait it out until he thinks enough time has passed.

Six minutes of staring at a wet paint sign. He has the impulse to run his hands up and down the wall. Make big messy streaks and stains. It already dried. Nothing comes off when he presses his thumb to it. He would rather keep watching paint dry. Stand here down the hall from that room forever. He’ll be a sentinel guarding it. Nobody in. Nobody out. Except he has already failed.

A doctor is walking out with a chart, scribbling something illegible. He feels like a child caught peeping as he scoots behind the wall’s edge to leave their line of sight. They walk away, giving him the opportunity to go in. 

The air is stagnant. Full of some dull energy. Machines beep and drip, keeping his friend alive. No pools of blood or gaping wounds. Everything is very neatly hidden behind gauze and tape. The doctors are liars, trying to disguise how close to death he is. The staff can’t hide all the bruising though. Around his neck and over the exposed parts of his head. Over the collar and the arm not trapped in a cast. 

He wants to touch him. Feel that he is not cold. Pretend he remembers how to check a pulse, because the machines could be lying. This all could be a trap to force him to look at a corpse dressed up as his friend. He envisions invisible strings yanking him up, his eyelids rolling back like those dolls to stare at him. A life sized marionette.

I’m nearly dead. Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?

But the figment passes when he shakes his head. He focuses on the shallow breathing, rise and fall of the chest underneath the sheet. The tube shoved down his throat is held there with tape. There’s no way it’s not hurting him. His hand twitches at the thought of removing it. It’s the only reason he’s breathing.

The room is too big. He feels exposed. He wants to follow his friend into the grave. Just the two of them again. Safely guarded by four strong walls. Unable to be reached from the outside world. Buried so deep even the worms can’t get them. Then he’d feel happy again.

As it stands that prospect is unlikely, perhaps unreasonable.

He cries more at indeterminate times and is out of tears by the end of the day. The people don’t bother him. No need to disturb a man and his corpse. He refuses their offers of food. Sustenance is for those who want to keep their strength.

He wants to pass out. Be enveloped by the kind darkness. His body won’t let him fall asleep. There’s always that chance he might miss it.

The nurses had told him the buttons to press when the machine went off. ‘When’ not ‘if’. The honesty of the word strikes a good chord in him. It did happen, much quieter than he expected. He waited two minutes to make sure. He silenced the sound going off. Watched for another minute before calling someone. He didn’t look any different. No fanfare or dramatics. Just stillness.

“Record time of death. 3:18 am” The doctor looks very tired. They are holding a cup of coffee. “I am sorry for your loss.” They say. It doesn’t seem very comforting as their eyes haven’t left the wall clock. When they do look all he notices is how uncomfortable they seem. Unwrinkled skin tells him they are young, but old eyes tell him they’ve lived through too many of these scenes. He forgives them silently. Quietly says his part and releases them from a prison of propriety. He’s glad when they leave, slightly hurried.

He’s not afraid to touch him anymore. No way for him to do any more damage. The cheek he holds is still warm, or maybe he’s cold, hard to tell. It’s an empty feeling to speak words to the dead, but he takes whatever solace he can get from the action.

There is nothing left for him here. He is also on his way out.


	2. cold on the inside cold on the out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some days you can't get up

“I feel cold.”

Murr pulls up the covers. “Better?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Q rolls over, unable to feel comfortable. “Could you, um, maybe hold me?” His eyes are averted, staring at the pillows.

“What’s wrong?” James puts his hand to his forehead, checking his temperature. “Are you okay?”

“Physically, yeah.” Brian tucks himself into Murr’s arms. It doesn’t help how he wants it to. He tries to focus on the warmth in front of him. His head is filled with buzzing. “I don’t know.”

Murray brings him closer, squeezes until breathes can no longer fill his lungs. Then lets go. “I’m sorry.” His arms hang loose around Quinn.

“You didn’t do anything. Nothing happened.” Tears are in his eyes, but he doesn’t feel sad. They are the smoke, a warning, of the fire he can’t see. There must be something eating him up, burning out his heart. There has to be a reason.

“I love you.” James kisses him. He’s tender and sweet, and this should fix Q. He should stop moping.

“I love you.” He hates himself for saying it. Wasting the words. Having them wasted on him. He needs something to change. He wants to be okay. Yesterday he was fine. What happened?

“I love you.” James kisses him, again. Holds his face in his hands and forces him to look. “I’ll never stop.”

“Thank you.” He wants to smile. He wants so much to reciprocate. There’s something wrong with the muscles in his jaw. His whole body is numb and useless.

“Do you want to be alone?” Murr is studying his face. Looking for clues.

“I think so.” Q stares at the pillows again. He doesn’t know, but if Murray stays he’ll just drag him down. Whatever is happening isn’t going to stop. If he’s lucky he’ll get hit by a car.

“Do you want to talk?” He shouldn’t have those eyes. James is staring at him. It’s too nice.

“No.” Quinn pulls his arms out from under Murray. He regrets trying. One arm wraps flat on his waist and he rests his head on the other. “I think you should go.”

“I don’t want to.” Murr purses his lips, the bridge of his nose grows small horizontal lines.

“You should leave me.” Brian looks tired. The day hasn’t even started and he’s already in a losing battle.

James is pushing him on his back. He places his hands on Q’s shoulders and kisses him for the third time. He won’t stop.

Quinn is waiting for the spark. Any time now. Please. It’s just lips and palms crushing him. Not hard enough to break through his skin. Drain him of this sick blood that feels so empty in his veins.

“I don’t want to.” The hair on his head is prickly, but when it rubs against Brian’s chest it is soft. It bends and adjusts under the weight.


End file.
